


A Newly-Single Oncologist and A Bored Diagnostician Walk Into A Bar…

by everybodylies



Category: House M.D.
Genre: First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:02:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House knows almost everything, and Wilson doesn't know much at all. They make a good match.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Newly-Single Oncologist and A Bored Diagnostician Walk Into A Bar…

**Author's Note:**

> So with all this sadness about House ending, I thought it would be best to focus on beginnings! So here's my version of House and Wilson meeting. Canon with Birthmarks.

There are a lot of things Wilson doesn't know. For instance: he doesn't know how his relationship with Sam managed to go so sour so quickly. He can still remember their wedding day, and the vividness and sharp colors of his memories tell him that it hasn't really been that long at all. He'd liked the way the peach of her skin went with the white of her dress, the way her eyes were constantly wrinkling with all the smiles, the way the sunlight hit her pearly whites and made them sparkle. Back then, when he was standing next to that altar, things were perfect and beautiful and amazing. "'Till death do us part," they'd said, and he'd meant every word of it.

These days, when he thinks of her, all he thinks of is arguments, silence, cold dinners, and money, or lack thereof.

And then there's the package. He's seen the return address, heard the beat of slamming doors, felt the chill of cold looks; he knows what's inside. But he's in a little thing called denial, and he likes to pretend he doesn't really.

It's all a bit surreal for him, honestly. Married and divorced by twenty-eight.

What Wilson doesn't know, can't possibly know, is that there will be a lot more where that came from.

\--

House knows everything. Well, at least as close to everything that a human being can know. For instance: he knows all about James E. Wilson M.D.

Of course, they haven't technically met yet, but House doesn't require such formalities. He already knows from the name tag that Wilson is an oncologist who works at Mass General. He knows, from the way that Wilson holds doors open and waits patiently, that the guy is a pushover, a people-pleaser, but the faces he makes when people aren't looking reveal his true, inner wit. At lunch, the guy leaves the package behind on his table for a moment to find napkins, and House sneaks over to take a peek. Now he knows that James Wilson is a soon-to-be divorcee in denial.

House knows a lot of things, about James Wilson and about the 3,000 other godforsaken people at that convention, but what he feels is this: that Wilson's the only one he doesn't know nearly enough about.

\--

There are a lot of things Wilson doesn't know. For instance: he doesn't know why this obscene man insists on continuing to play Leave a Tender Moment Alone on the jukebox. Once was pleasant, twice was quite enough, and nine… well, nine was the breaking point.

He doesn't know why he keeps asking this man so politely to stop. The drunk man is clearly not very keen on manners. Wilson grabs the half-empty bottle that the exasperated bartender had just decided to leave there. It's heavy in his hand. There are repercussions from this, he thinks through the haze in his mind, but how can he care about such things? Not when he's got a package, which he can't open because inside are Schrödinger's papers, not when this guy by the jukebox is being the biggest ass known to mankind (a bit ironic later, when he does manage to find an even bigger one), not when, even though he's at a convention with 3,000 other doctors, he feels so inexplicably and indescribably alone. Limbs and judgment loosened by the alcohol, he aims at an expensive mirror, and throws.

What Wilson doesn't know, can't possibly know, is that come twenty years time, he'll do it again.

\--

House knows everything. For instance: he knows how to get people out of trouble with the law, how to find a good lawyer, how to set up a deal.

He fills out the check and hands it to the officer. The five grand doesn't set him back too much. After all, he knows how to read people, and he knows how to play poker, and his savings account has benefited from this lately.

He knows the facts, some of which he sees with his own eyes, and others from other eyewitness accounts: James Wilson left the convention for the bar at six p.m., still not having opened the package. He starts off slow, but as more alcohol enters his system, he becomes belligerent and needy, and eventually, the stressed bartender leaves the bottle for Wilson to serve himself. All the while, a brooding young man named Nick Pachel replays the song Leave a Tender Moment Alone on the jukebox after having broken up with his girlfriend of three years. He doesn't step in to tell the men that they're suffering from similar situations, just sits back and watches the fireworks. What comes next he doesn't expect.

He smiles when the bottle hits the mirror.

A cop hands him James Wilson's belongings, one of which being the package. He fingers the edges, which are, of course, still sealed.

House knows a lot of things, about humans and human nature and life, but what he feels is this: sorry… and fascinated.

\--

There are a lot of things Wilson doesn't know. For instance: he doesn't know the name or face of the man that has come to bail him out. The cop uncuffs him, then leads him to this unfamiliar man.

"He's all yours," the cop announces. Wilson looks at this man, with the scruff and the blue eyes.

"What-? Who-? Why-?" he stutters. The man smirks, and Wilson can feel the man's eyes all over him, analyzing, learning.

"I took care of it." The man steps forward and hands Wilson his keys and wallet, along with the package. He squeezes it lightly, and he can feel what seems to be a thick packet of papers inside. He looks back up at this man, this stranger.

"Sorry, if I could have a minute to myself, please." The man nods, and Wilson walks around the police station, looking for a letter opener or a pair of scissors.

Returning only a few moments later, his body feels much freer without the package's bulkiness weighing him down. The man remains where Wilson had left him, a mildly interested look on his face. Everything's different and nothing's different, all at the same time. He's going home now, to a cold bed, to an apartment empty of children who will never be, and his mind is racing, but he looks at this man, this new man, and centers himself.

"Thank you, how can I repay you…er…"

"House," the man fills in. "Gregory House." Wilson holds out a hand, and, after a second's hesitation, House takes it.

"James Wilson." House rolls his eyes.

"I already knew that, Wilson." The two men smile.

"So, how can I make this up to you, House?"

What Wilson doesn't know, can't possibly know, is that, in several years, this man will take up a ridiculously large percentage of his time daily, that his eyes will be able to bore into Wilson's soul and tell him exactly what he's thinking at that very moment, that his snide comments will get him laughing his guts out after a difficult case, that his presence in Wilson's life will be one of the few things that still motivates him to get out of bed in the mornings.

"Well, you could start with buying me a drink."

"That... sounds good."

What Wilson doesn't know, can't possibly know, is that they will become best friends.


End file.
